


Homage

by my_daroga



Category: Star Trek RPF, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_daroga/pseuds/my_daroga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three men with something in common meet at a bar. And Shatner still hasn't seen the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [b_dsaint](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=b_dsaint).



_Chris Pine honors you. You might find out are proud of this movie, proud of the way Captain Kirk, a character you created, is honored in this movie_

-Leonard Nimoy, to William Shatner

  
His first thought was that he hadn't meant to hit him that hard.

His second, with a pride far more potent than regret, was that he still had it, dammit.

His third was cut short when Chris Pine punched him in the face.

Bill Shatner reeled back, grabbing onto a chair to keep his balance because however much of a punch he could still pack, falling at his age meant broken hips and bruised more than his ego.

"What the fuck?" Pine was yelling, and Bill had to admit he wasn't sure. As his vision cleared, he noted the few patrons the bar had left doing the dance of deciding whether to intervene or revel in the train wreck absurdity of seeing a fistfight between a nearly 80 year old has been and a fresh-faced young upstart. He raised his hands in a denial that either would be necessary, shooting Pine his best supplicating look complete with raised eyebrows and the promise of a smile, if only you'll back down. "Oh my god," continued Pine, as if it was the same thought and not a total 180, "I just punched William Shatner."

And then, about the same time as he felt a hand come down on his shoulder (firm and warm and exuding command the way a father's hand, a policeman's hand, did) Pine's expression screwed up into something combining confusion and disbelief and focusing on a spot just above his left shoulder—the shoulder with the oddly paternal weight now gripping him gently. And then a hand appeared on Pine's right shoulder, a hand Bill followed up the arm and the wide shoulder to…

No.

For most people, growing older means that subjectivity about your own appearance magnifies as the subtle changes creep in, and you get so used to the face in the mirror that it's easy to fool yourself into thinking you look pretty much the same now as you did ten, twenty years ago. Faced with what you actually did look like, you might not recognize yourself. But the face before Bill now was one he had been unable to avoid for over forty years, frozen in time as a sort of mockery of his prime as the years (and tabloids) had grown unkinder. Most of that had worn away, of course, now that he was officially "old" and had an excuse to be, well, getting old, but he still had to sign his name to photos that looked almost like a different person.

Who looked like the man who held him and Pine in his firm grip.

"This isn't why I invited you two here," he said, in a tone that conveyed warmth, friendship, humor, and disapproval all at once and Bill wondered how he did that. Even apart from--

"What?" he and Pine said at the same time, glaring at each other in tandem in a way Bill would have recognized as being humorous on film, but was just irritating in real life. Which, come to think of it, this couldn't possibly be. Nimoy was the one who thought he was Spock or whatever. Bill thought he might have read that book, once. He wasn't quite sure. But he was sure that he remembered that Nimoy talked to Spock in it. Bill, mostly, talked to himself. And he'd written way more books than Nimoy.

"Sit down," the man sighed, propelling them towards a round booth in the back. "And don't hit each other while I'm gone." With that, he sauntered away with the casual stride of a man who has purpose, but knows his commands will be followed, despite the weird unmanly clinginess of the green shirt he was wearing. Bill wanted to punch Pine just for that.

"So," said Pine. There was a red mark on his cheekbone that Bill hoped would darken into a nice black eye. "That's James T. Kirk, isn't it?"

Bill opened his mouth to reprimand him for stating the obvious, when he realized that it wasn't obvious at all, because they were talking about a fictional character, a character he had played, and felt ownership of. It was one thing for pasty wanna-bes in ill-fitting costumes to inform him that they were his spitting image, but it was another thing for that spitting image to show up and tell him to behave. He wondered if he could punch this new Kirk in the face, and if it'd be remotely as satisfying as punching Pine had been.

"Don't be stupid," he snapped. "Of course that's not James T. Kirk. I'm James T. Kirk."

Pine frowned. "I didn't think I'd hit you that hard," he said, ridiculously as he was the one insisting Bill's fictional creation had just stepped out of the aether to, presumably, buy them drinks. "Plus, he looks a lot like you. Well, a little like me."

Bill opened his mouth to inform him that the man looked exactly like him, when the party in question returned to the table, artfully balancing three drinks in his hands. They were tall, the color an indescribable mix of warm hues. He set them down in front of each of them before signaling to Pine to move so he could slide in between them. Pine sat back down, a little dazed.

"Actually, I look like both of you," the man in the green shirt said, "and neither. It's a little complicated—maybe you should have some of this."

"What is it?" Pine asked, as the newcomer raised his glass to his lips.

"A little something I made up, years ago, on Deneb IV." The smirk on his face was undeniable, and Bill wondered if he thought he was going to get away with this. The man sipped, frowned slightly, and shrugged. "Not the same without Cardassian gin, but what can you do?"

"All right, that's enough," said Bill roughly. The fact that he'd learned to laugh at himself didn't mean he was going to sit here and let this bozo mock him openly. What was he trying to pull, anyway, with his tight shirt and fruity drinks and cocky smile? He got up to leave, a slower process than in years past which gave the man time to place a hand on his forearm. Which made Bill look at him again, which meant that he was greeted with the full force of a look that had never been visited upon him, but which others had noted and he hadn't really understood. A look of such complete understanding and care that the recipient couldn't deny its sincerity. Even a recipient who knew better than anyone else that it simply wasn't true.

"Please," he said. "Don't go yet. You'll hurt my feelings." The man nodded towards the drink. Pine was actually picking his up.

"Takei sent you," Bill spat out decisively, because this was too mean and too well-executed to be Leonard's practical joke.

"It's _good_," Pine said, eyes wide, nodding at the supposed creator of this wonder.

"Of course it's _good_," he said amiably. "I wouldn't put my name to anything bad." He turned back to Bill. "Sit down, Mr. Shatner. Please. George didn't set this up. I did. It's time we three got a few things straight." The young man said "George" like that, too, was an issue he'd like to put right but priorities were priorities.

"You in on this, junior?"

Pine shook his head. "Never saw him before in my life. Well. Except on tv."

"So you believe him?"

The man between them laughed. "I never claimed to be anyone, Bill. You came to that conclusion on your own. Both of you did. But you can call me Jim, if you want."

"I'm not staying long enough to call you anything," Bill said, but there was no sting in his tone.

"Yes you are," Jim said. "You're curious. This is about you, after all." He smiled, like Bill was the only being on the planet (maybe the universe) worthy of his attention at this very moment.

Bill sat. Well, what could it hurt? He didn't seem dangerous. "Do you want my autograph?" he tried.

Jim chuckled. "No."

"Can I?" said Pine. "You can sign it, 'Sorry I punched you. Love, William Shatner.'"

"How about I sign your cast, 'Sorry I broke your arm, but not really.'"

Jim held up his hands. "Bill. Are you twelve?"

Bill blinked at him, and suddenly, Jim seemed a whole lot more reasonable. Leonard was always telling him he was three. Twelve was a significant upgrade in someone's opinion of him. "I've aged well," he said smugly.

Jim glanced up and down, an assessing, overt gaze. "Yes, you have"

That shut Bill up again, especially when he saw Pine giving him the once over, too, as if seeing him for the first time. Or at any rate, seeing him as something other than his grandfather's age for the first time.

He didn't even realize he'd taken a sip of the fruity drink until he'd swallowed and the taste belatedly registered, citrusy and strong without, somehow, being _tropical_. His face must have registered his pleasant surprise because Jim grinned again, and Bill felt more okay with that than he would have expected.

"Okay," said Jim, as if starting a meeting. Or was it a briefing, in this case? "Let me get to the point. You, William Shatner, resent Chris Pine here for what you perceive as a hostile takeover of the part of James T. Kirk, the character you originated and, understandably, feel a great deal of ownership over. You, Chris Pine, are taking advantage of a valuable career opportunity despite some anxiety that the association of the role with Mr. Shatner here means either that you'll be considered a usurper by fans or that you'll fall prey to the same career difficulties Mr. Shatner has. Does that about sum it up?"

Bill frowned. "What 'career difficulties'?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Current ownership aside, Bill, you weren't always so eager to claim me as your own, were you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Bill said airily. "Whoever you _think_ you are--"

"Mr. Shatner?" Pine cut in, leaning forward slightly. "I know this is hella weird, and kinda creepy, but look... Can we just go with it, for now? I don't see any cameras, his clothes are too tight for him to have a tape recorder going, and I for one would be cool with a sort of Pascal's wager that if this is James T. Kirk, we have a hell of a lot more to gain by believing him than not."

Bill wasn't sure what infuriated him most: "hella," the fact he had no idea what "Pascal's wager" meant, or the way Jim looked over at Pine with beaming approval. Mostly it was that Pine was sort of making sense, and it made Bill feel childish and petty and while he liked acting that way most of the time, he didn't like it being pointed out. He took a long sip of the drink through the straw, which Jim and Pine seemed to take as tacit agreement, smiling at him with oddly matching grins that made him wonder just how strong the drink was. Maybe it was roofied. Maybe Jim wanted to abduct him for his own nefarious purposes. Wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to drag the captain back to their lair, only usually it was women and usually, Bill hadn't minded that much until they called him "Jim" or, worse, "captain" in bed. Now, though, it seemed like the good old days, in a sort of abstract, I'm-totally-happy-with-Liz,-but sort of way.

"One thing I don't understand," Bill said, choosing one of many, "is what business it is of yours."

Jim refocused on him, suddenly serious. "It's my future," he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "You two have careers, legacies, ego on the line. For me, it's more like... existence." He smiled again, and suddenly sobriety wasn't necessarily divorced from humor. "I don't get to go be someone else. There's no Denny Crane in my future. There's just what you—and everyone else—decide to do with me. What people choose to remember. And I want some stake in that."

Bill shrugged. "What's that got to do with me? I'm out, remember? Old hat."

Jim shook his head, and you could see the words forming on the tip of his tongue, as if he held them within him for a moment before sending them out into the world. "You know that's not true," he said, his voice warm. "Even he still sees you when he looks at me." He glanced at Pine, who blushed mysteriously. "Mostly."

"This is ridiculous," Bill said, disbelief saturating his tone. "Even if you were Jim Kirk, you wouldn't be aware that you're a fictional character. I mean, you wouldn't be a fictional character. And you'd exist whether or not I or Pine or whoever had your 'legacy' or whatever. It's a paradox." There, Bill thought. He'd taken care of that problem.

"That's fairly simplistic," Jim said. "Who are you to make up the rules about who's fictional, and that you have to be either one or the other? How many of you are there out there, running around, saying 'I'm William Shatner' when really, if you put them all together you get someone who doesn't make a whole lot of sense as a person? Are you real, Bill? All the time? Or have you, carefully in some instances, created yourself for presentation to others? Is that person less real, for being somewhat untrue?"

It was a lot of questions, and Bill was glad that they didn't seem to require answers. He was confused enough, now, that he thought he might have trouble arguing he was William Shatner at all. Because he saw, without being able to really articulate it, what Jim was saying. Even if it was utterly _impossible_ that he be saying it.

Which made Jim something of a badass. Bill could get behind that.

"So," Pine piped up, his disgustingly young, smooth brow furrowed, "what are you doing here? Is this, like, some kind of intervention? I don't have a problem with Mr. Shatner. Or I didn't, anyway." Pine fingered his cheek gratuitously.

"But you will," Jim said, "if you don't already. This is bigger than both of you. I'm bigger than both of you." He cocked his head at Bill. "You're bigger than me, too. That's not the point. The point is that this isn't just about you anymore. It hasn't been for years."

"Far be it from me to argue with the captain himself," said Bill, "but it seems to me a great many people have spent a great deal of time _making_ it about me. Or me about you. Or something. So why don't you tell me what it's really about?"

"It's about what James Kirk means to those people," said Jim. "Not only what they saw in him—in you as him—but what that became. Me. Look, I could go into a long, boring explanation about why I'm here that won't make sense, or we could talk about you."

Across the room, in a dim corner Bill hadn't noticed, canned music started playing and a hesitant, middle aged woman began singing "Achy Breaky Heart" about half a beat behind on each word. Unpredictably, Jim's face lit up, and he beamed at each of them in turn.

"Or we could sing karaoke!" he said, grabbing them both by the arms and somehow herding them out of the booth and towards the dreaded corner. Bill dug his heels in.

"I don't do karaoke," he said warningly, and Pine rolled his eyes, and Jim looked upset and then cajoling. That was a look Bill recognized. Which meant he should have been completely immune. He glanced back at the table, surprised to note that all three glasses had been drained. When had that happened? Ah well, one drink should _not_ have had him contemplating public humiliation he wasn't being paid for.

Pine had already jumped up on stage and was conferring with the DJ, like he did this all the time, and maybe he did. Bill couldn't, even if he wanted to. It was weird enough, he thought, that the few people in the bar weren't bothering him. He braced himself for some sort of rap or something, whatever kids like Pine listened to, and was surprised to hear... Neil Diamond.

"Where it began, I can't begin to know when  
But then I know it's growing strong."

Pine sounded... pleasant. Untrained, unremarkable, but he was definitely giving it his enthusiastic all and Bill thought he saw him wink at Jim at one point. When he reached the chorus, he raised an arm and attempted to sweep everyone along, and it probably would have worked if there had been more than five people besides them in attendance.

He had to admit, there didn't seem to be anything unpleasant abut Pine at all, other than his being young and attractive and ruining his life. He came to sit next to Bill as Jim took the microphone, and for a moment Bill's eyes met his as they silently wondered what they were about to witness. The idea of Kirk singing karaoke—singing, at _all_\--had never crossed Bill's mind. Well, maybe one time, after a long day on the set when he'd entertained everyone crooning Rolling Stones songs while in costume, which had prompted a short discussion about Captain Kirk's musical taste.

Which had not, naturally, included Duran Duran. Which was what they heard, both Pine and Bill struck silent and still by the revelation that was James T. Kirk, unabashedly and slightly off-key, tackling "Rio" with as much passion as he seemed to attack everything else. He wasn't _good_. But he wasn't horrible, and there was something even Bill couldn't say wasn't charming about the incongruity of it and Jim's apparent delight.

There was a smattering of applause he seemed to accept as he due as he hopped off the stage. "Ahh, the classics," he mused, handing Bill the microphone. "What'll it be?"

He'd decided not to singing anything. This was stupid. It didn't make any sense. But he'd realized, while watching Jim stumble over "Oh Rio, Rio, dance across the Rio Grande," that he was having fun. That he'd missed Jim. Which didn't make sense either, because he'd thought the problem was the Jim had never left him alone.

But that wasn't true at all.

He muttered something to the DJ, pointing at the first thing on the list he recognized. Not, he admitted to himself, that it mattered much. He hoped there wasn't some hidden message in Patsy Cline's "Crazy" to worry about, but figured he was safe in thinking no one would take a love song the wrong way.

The thing was, he thought, as the words scrolled across the screen and he said them, he had resented Jim Kirk. For being popular. For being better than him. For the way he made Bill resent himself for wanting to live up to an ideal he himself had created, and therefore shouldn't have to work for. He'd resented him, abandoned him, discounted the impact on fans because _he_ was Kirk, and that should have been enough. And then, somehow, he was scrambling to get Kirk back, to make him his own again, because if he couldn't be Kirk maybe Kirk could be him. It was all a muddle at this point, until he told himself and others that he'd always loved _Star Trek_, that he'd always known it was special, even when he didn't quite believe it and only knew he had something by the tail that other people thought was special. It was a constant push and pull, denial and acceptance, until he wasn't sure what was Kirk anymore and what was just Bill putting on the best of himself—and resenting it for belonging to someone else.

But he'd always loved Kirk, really. Kirk was what he most loved about himself, after all. How could he help but love and hate him? Even now, as the man stared back at him as he talked through this love song, his eyes shining as if Bill himself were the revelation?

What did it mean if Jim Kirk was capable of loving _him_? Or did it mean more that that was even a question?

"That was incredible," Jim breathed. "I've never heard anything like it. Entirely unique—it's like an art form all its own. You make songs into _poetry_."

Bill stared at him, and tried not to look at Pine, who had the look of a man trying desperately not to dissolve into a fit of hysteria. And then, almost against his will, he smiled. At Jim. "You're not just putting me on."

"No," Jim said.

"Actually," Pine said, having apparently recovered, "once you sort of get over that it's not really singing, it's sort of interesting."

"If you have a case, junior, you're not helping it any," Bill said, but he was feeling sort of good now. Tolerant. He looked at Pine again, and Pine seemed to carry no malice in his expression, and was in fact looking almost contemplative as they made their way in unspoken agreement back to their booth.

"That was fun," Jim said. Pine nodded. Bill didn't, but since he didn't say anything everyone knew he'd agreed. They all sort of settled into their seats, another round of drinks arrived delivered by a waitress who gave Jim a slow and not at all subtle smile as she leaned over obtrusively to set his glass before him. Jim's smile offered encouragement without escalation, and Bill was once again consumed with the question of whether he had ever looked _like that_ or whether this was somehow unique to Jim Kirk. Pine was staring at him too, his brow lowered slightly in his own question.

"Why here?" Pine asked suddenly. Both of them looked at him, caught mid-drink. "I mean, why are we singing karaoke in a bar with you? Why aren't we, I don't know, on the _Enterprise_ or something? Wouldn't that be more convincing?"

"Ah," Jim said. "It's part of this whole thing. This is where this needed to happen—where the two of you needed it to. I'm not talking about fate, or anything like that. I just mean that... Well, I'm the Kirk you needed to meet. I don't mean you created this, that I have no choice in the matter. I mean that showing you the ship, or going off on some wild adventure, wouldn't necessarily show you what I needed to. About yourselves, and me."

"You want us to... _like_ you?" Bill asked, lost.

"There was never a question about that," Jim said, turning his warm eyes on Bill. "I wouldn't exist without you. But I also wouldn't exist if you hadn't put so much of yourself into me. At the same time—am I you?"

Bill looked at him for a moment, not sure he knew what he was asking. No—not sure he wanted to answer what he knew Jim was asking. "No," he said finally. No. He had watched Jim. Jim looked like he had, sounded like he had, used the expressions and the manners Bill thought he'd created. And Bill was tempted to believe he carried the room the way Jim did. That people saw something like this creature before him when they looked at William Shatner. But he didn't feel like Bill. Bill doubted they'd be mistaken for one another, even at the same age. Not once they got talking. Which was obvious, and all stuff he knew, but somehow he hadn't thought about it before.

Jim looked at Pine. "Am I you?"

Pine shook his head immediately. "No. No, but... I went into this knowing you weren't ever going to be. That I'd be an addition, an alternative. Not an erasure." He glanced almost shyly at Bill. "An homage. But not an imitation." He grinned.

"You both recognized me," Jim said. "And yet, you both are me. _That's_ what I needed to show you, Bill." He smiled at him earnestly.

Bill just watched him with narrowed eyes for a moment. "That I am you, and not you, and you're me, but not me, and so is Pine over there? What the hell does that mean?"

"Are you angry at him anymore?" Bill considered this. Shook his head. "Are you angry at me?" That took slightly less consideration. "It doesn't matter what it means. Just that we're all connected, and I'm far too awesome to let you two fight over me. There's enough James T. Kirk to go round." The smirk on Jim's face as he took a last sip of his drink suggested many, many things. And Bill was a little too charmed, or too drunk, at this point to object entirely to Jim making it all about him. It was, after all, one of the things that Bill found charming about himself.

He never remembered quite how he got home.

He did, however, distinctly remember the phone call that occurred the next morning, when Liz handed him the phone with a fond eye-roll that meant "Leonard" and Bill cradled it between his shoulder and ear as he carried his orange juice out to the deck.

"So," Len said, as if they were continuing some conversation Bill didn't remember. "How was it for you?"

There was something in his tone Bill couldn't quite catch. Or believe. "What?"

"You. And Jim. And Chris. How'd it go?"

"You know about that? How? What? What's going on? Did you set this up, Leonard?" He wished he could see Len's expression, though admittedly they were sometimes sort of subtle.

"Well, after Spock showed up, Zach and I sort of figured, though I didn't want to say anything before," he said easily, like this was a totally reasonable thing to talk about on Sunday morning over the phone, or ever. "And considering your track record with inappropriate comments, I didn't think you would mind a blunt question: How's James T. Kirk in bed?"

"_WHAT_?"

"Are you being coy, Shatner? After all this time? Even Spock knew it was going to happen—put three Kirks in a room, narcissism's bound to take its course."

Bill didn't really have an answer for that that had any transliteration.

"What was that?" Leonard asked. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch it. That good, huh?"

"We talked," Bill said finally. "And... drank some fruity drink, and sang... karaoke."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Are you not telling me, Lenny," Bill said finally, "that you, and Zachary Quinto, had sex with Mr. Spock?"

Leonard hadn't the decency to sound at all embarrassed. "It was the logical course to alleviate the lingering and quite natural resentments inherent in the situation," he said, like that was supposed to make sense. "Not to mention the unique opportunity. Scientifically speaking."

Bill's pause was occupied with his not trying to visualize anything at all, while simultaneously feeling grateful Liz wasn't around to ask why his mouth was gaping open and mock him for being at a loss for words, for once.

"I think I'm going to the movies later," he said finally. "Want to go?"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://b-dsaint.livejournal.com/profile)[**b_dsaint**](http://b-dsaint.livejournal.com/) for round 2 of [](http://community.livejournal.com/trekrpfexchange/profile)[**trekrpfexchange**](http://community.livejournal.com/trekrpfexchange/). _Motivation -- there are universal constants --- go crazy people, i just really want Shatner, Pine and Kirk all in one fic, however you manage to do it._


End file.
